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  Dean nodded.

  Knowing he was putting his son in considerable danger, Ryan went on, "And if he makes a move to hurt you, chill him on the spot."

  "Don't worry, Dad. I'll see it done."

  Despite the argumentative look on his face, Elmore moved out, staying the agreed upon distance back from J.B. and Jak. Dean fell in behind him, the Browning looking big in his hand.

  "The rest of you fall in if you're going with us," Ryan said. "Keep up or we'll leave you behind. We're only go­ing to live as long as we can move quick."

  The group hesitated only a moment, then got under way. Ryan had Krysty and Mildred fall in next, and he brought up drag himself.

  Even with the children, the group moved quickly. Jak and J.B. moved quicker, racing through the junkyard until they reached the high wooden wall securing the back. Most of the wall was constructed of old planks, but sheets of rusted tin and boards that looked different than the original wood covered areas where men or animals had broken through.

  Jak and J.B. chose one of the tin covered areas and hacked their way through with a camp ax. The blasterfire had died away, and no matter what had happened between the coldhearts and Naylor's sec team, Ryan figured it only meant bad news for the companions.

  "Clear!" Jak called, throwing aside the last piece of tin. The albino led the way through.

  Ryan hunkered down under cover, gazing back along the two aisles he could see between the wag wreckage. Per­spiration clung to him, making the feces stuck to his clothes and skin feel even worse.

  "The dogs," Krysty whispered from nearby as Doc urged his charges through the wall. Her green eyes looked haunted, fever bright.

  "What about the dogs?" Mildred prompted.

  "They've picked up our scents," Krysty said.

  "How do you know?" Ryan demanded.

  "I can.. .feel them." She shook her head, as if she didn't like the sensation. "It's Phlorin, lover. Her being in my head is affecting my powers, making them stronger."

  Her words cut into Ryan's heart, but he shook it off. It was a waste of time worrying about something that he couldn't do anything about. Getting out of the ville—that would give them the breathing room they needed. Then they'd see what needed to be done.

  Mildred and Krysty squeezed through the hole in the fence, and Ryan followed. With the dogs getting their scent, presumably the smell of the dog shit over all their clothes, as well, he knew there'd be little chance of throwing them off track.

  THE LAND BROKE AWAY from the ville, falling into a rapid decline as the group neared the river. Judging from the amount of damage from water erosion, Ryan guessed that much of the surrounding land had been submerged at one time. The nukecaust had reshaped much of North America. Besides breaking off much of what had been California, it had also created a huge lake in the northwestern section of the Deathlands. The tidal waves that had rolled in as a result of the earthquakes and tsunamis that had swallowed the West Coast had continued on into the interior and cre­ated a huge lake. The overflow from that had evidently rolled through Idaho for a time.

  Small wooden docks made of cast-off lumber jutted into the water. Some were higher than others, indicating the water level was subject to change. Judging from the docks he saw, the river was sometimes as much as thirty feet higher than what it was now, and pushed back over some of the tumbledown wreckage left of Idaho Falls.

  Tall grass and cattails, still yellow and trying to make a comeback from the earlier flood stages of the river, lined the sharp incline leading to the river. A handful of boats was tied up at the docks. The morning fishing was done, but men remained at the docks mending equipment and nets. Women and children stood around fifty-five-gallon drums filled with burning wood, smoking the fish that had been caught.

  Wag engines roared in the distance, growing closer.

  None of the boats, however, were equipped with engines. Masts stood proudly in all of them, the sails furled. Only two were big enough for the companions and the hangers-on they'd picked up.

  Knowing they had no choice, Ryan commanded the oth­ers to ground behind the ville debris lining the riverbank, then waved Jak and J.B. to him. They went toward the long boat Ryan chose, walking in a loose triangle.

  The afternoon sun beat down on the riverbank. The sand deposits scouring the sides of the incline were already nearly dry, as if the rainstorm that had come earlier had never happened at all.

  The women and children spotted Ryan and the others first. They were poorly outfitted, dressed in patched home­spun that had faded from hard wear and too many wash­ings. Their faces carried scars, physical and emotional. Boning and scaling knives filled their hands, but they backed away. Mothers sent small children scampering to hide in the debris or in the nearby weeds.

  Ryan didn't say anything because there was nothing to say. Even if the people didn't know what he was there for, they knew he was there to take something that wasn't his.

  The sailboat had a tall mast that advertised plenty of room for sailcloth. With the wind blowing strongly and in the right direction, Ryan hoped it would be enough to push them quickly against the sluggish current of the greenish river.

  Ryan brought up the Steyr, shoving the business end to­ward the bearded man mending a net on the rickety dock beside the sailboat. "Move away from the boat."

  The bearded man was squat and powerfully built, prob­ably not up to Ryan's shoulder, but almost half again as broad. He wore a faded gray sweatshirt with the sleeves hacked off, perspiration stains beading across his upper chest, and striped overalls that had been cut off at midthigh. His hair was dark brown but glinted red where the sun had washed the color out, the same as his beard. He wore a baseball cap that bore a picture of a leaping green fish.

  "This is my boat, mister." The man motioned to the two teenage boys helping him with the net.

  "Not now, it isn't," Ryan said. "Now it might be the only chance at escape my friends and I have got."

  "My boat's the only way I got of making a living for my family. Take that from me, might as well shoot me right here."

  "It'll be done," Ryan said. "I plan on dying last if I got a choice. And you stopping me now's the same as pulling a blaster on me."

  The sailor stood slowly, a long gutting knife in his hand that looked like a short sword. Scars on his face and arms showed that he was no stranger to fighting or bladework.

  The wag engines sounded closer, and Ryan knew they were running out of time. His finger tightened on the Steyr's trigger. He knew he'd kill the man if he had to. The boys spread out around their father, taking up defen­sive positions. Ryan had yet to see a blaster on any of them, but he didn't doubt he'd have to kill the boys if he killed their father. It didn't sit well with him.

  But that boat was the companions only way out of the trouble they were in. There was no choice about passing it up.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The sailor squinted past Ryan, gazing in the distance. His thumb nestled confidently on the broad-bladed gutting knife. It was turned edge up in his hand, the sawteeth glint­ing in the afternoon sunlight. "Slaggers?" he asked. "You got trouble with them?"

  "They mean to put us on the last train headed West," Ryan said.

  "Chill any of them?"

  "Many as we could. You're wasting my time," Ryan growled.

  "Got no love for the Slaggers," the sailor said with a mean grin, "but I love this boat, and I need this boat. I lose it, I lose myself, and there ain't no fucking around about that. You know how to handle it?"

  "Sailed before." Even as he answered, Ryan remem­bered the storm-tossed seas in Georgia when he and J.B. had piloted a cabin cruiser along the Lantic coastline. He was more at home in an armored wag with plenty of fuel and ammo. It would have been his first choice.

  "But you don't know this river," the sailor went on. "She's a tricky bitch, especially now. Stuff piled up on the bottom where you least expect it, and during the dry season like this, you don't know where those places are, you'll rip
the bottom right out of her and not get away anyhow. Let me captain her for you, and you'll improve your chances on getting away. And I'll improve my chances on keeping my boat in one piece."

  "Makes sense," J.B. stated.

  Ryan looked at Jak and got a nod of approval from the albino. "Cover him," Ryan told Jak.

  The teenager put his .357 Magnum on the man. "Move," he ordered.

  "My boys go with us," the sailor said. "I ain't leaving them here to take their chances with the Slaggers when they watch me sail out of here with you."

  "You're getting mighty pushy for a man one bullet away from being chilled," Ryan said.

  "Figure there's no better time," the man replied. "Still remains to be seen if you can chill me before I get close enough to open you up, take a look inside."

  Ryan grinned at the man's confidence, appreciating it. "They go." He turned and waved to his companions, yell­ing at them to run. He could already see the dogs closing the distance, hear their baying echoing across the river.

  In seconds, they'd loaded aboard the sailboat and ducked down out of sight. Blasterfire from the wags pelted the river and tore into the sailboat's sides.

  Ryan took up a position aft, easing the Steyr into position on the railing. He led the first wag he spotted, then squeezed the trigger and rode out the recoil. The heavy bullet sheared through the broken windshield of the wag and exploded the face of the man beyond.

  Out of control, the wag slewed crazily down the steep incline and into a small rowboat less than a dozen yards from the boat Ryan had chosen. The wag and rowboat went down at once, showing how surprisingly deep the channel had cut through the land throughout the years it had flowed through it. Ryan managed to pick off two more Slaggers before the coldhearts pulled back and formed a skirmish line. J.B. fell in beside him, but held fire for the moment. It was enough that the Slaggers knew they were armed.

  Turning, Ryan watched the sailor's boys shinny up the masts like daring monkeys. They cut the sailcloth free in a heartbeat as their father cast off the lines. By the time they reached the decks, the wind was already starting to fill the sails and pull the boat into smooth motion.

  J.B. cut loose with the Remington M-4000 three times. The hollow booms rolled across the boat and the water, but the knife-edged flechettes ripped the dogs that raced down the dock to bloody tatters. Their corpses tumbled into the water.

  The boat came about smoothly, taking to the water and charging upstream despite the current. The sailor kept his hand on the wheel, working the boom and calling out or­ders to his sons.

  Ryan came down from the slightly raised prow and walked along the side facing the incline where the Slaggers raced on the bank. The coldhearts hadn't given up the chase, but with the lack of roads along the bank, they weren't having much success. Still, their bullets ripped across the sailboat's deck, ripping holes in the sailcloth.

  The sailor cursed lustily as he saw the damage done to his sails. He ordered his boys to stay low. Ryan signaled to Doc to keep them under his eye. There was every pos­sibility the man had weapons aboard his craft and might seek to redress his current situation.

  A final volley managed to kill one of the women and two of the men aboard the sailboat, leaving Mary and her husband, and Elmore and one of the other women, as well as the children. The little girl screamed in anguish and held on to her dead father until Krysty took her into her arms and pulled her to safety. The men died instantly, but the woman died screaming, her guts blasted out of her and stringing across the boat deck.

  In the end, Mildred held her tight, then slipped her ZKR 551 against the back of the woman's head and pulled the trigger to put her out of her misery. Blood sprayed into the air and dappled the belling sailcloth with crimson splotches.

  When the woman was dead, Mildred shoved her over the edge. She hit the water with a splash, quickly falling behind the wake of the sailboat. For a moment, the body floated in the water, intestines strung out around her like a bloody spiderweb. Then the fish began to feed, nibbling at the rub­bery trails of soft flesh and dragging it under in places.

  During their earlier excursion through the river after ar­riving through the mat-trans unit, Ryan had discovered that the river held several forms of mutie fish. Some of them were damn near as big as a man.

  "Bad place to go in the water," the sailor commented above the creak of the mast and the crack of sailcloth. "Docks attract scavenger fish and other things. Got mutie crawfish in there longer than a man's arm that have devel­oped a real appetite for meat. Don't mind working for it, either. Seen men and women dragged under, they get too close to the water when they're fishing from the banks."

  "I'll keep that in mind," Ryan said. He watched the Slaggers disappear to their rear. "What are the chances they'll be able to find us?"

  The man smiled at Ryan.

  "Think something's so damn funny?" the one-eyed man growled.

  "Be kind of hard to hide the river, wouldn't it? And they know which direction we headed out in."

  Ryan felt the back of his neck burn from anger. Too damn many things going on, and he wasn't thinking straight. Krysty's situation wasn't leaving him much room for thinking about other things. She seemed to be getting around better, but she still wasn't herself.

  "Where are we going?" the sailor asked.

  "Upriver," Ryan answered.

  "Got a destination in mind?"

  "Know it when we get there," Ryan said.

  "Them Slaggers following us," the sailor said, "you go far enough up this river till we reach the rough country, they ain't gonna be so apt to follow. They live off the easy pickings around Idaho Falls."

  Ryan nodded, catching Jak's eye and letting the albino know watching the sailor was his responsibility. The albino gave him a short nod. Ryan reloaded the Steyr, noticing how low his ammo was getting, then went back to join Krysty. She still held the little girl as she cried.

  "Her father," Krysty said, emotional herself.

  "I know." Ryan looked down at the little girl but didn't let emotion touch him. They were still running for their lives, and getting overly involved could mean the death of them all. He was surprised Krysty was so obviously over­wrought.

  "Not myself, lover." Krysty glanced up at him and wiped at the tears on her cheeks. "Carrying a lot of extra baggage in my head right now."

  "It's okay." Ryan touched her shoulder, then resumed scanning the river. "We'll fix it."

  Krysty put her hand on the little girl's head for a mo­ment, then grimaced. Abruptly the little girl passed out, every muscle relaxing. "Better for her this way," the red­head said. "Took away her pain for a little bit. She'll sleep, then mebbe we'll be in a better place."

  "How'd you do that?" Ryan asked.

  "Don't know, lover. Just knew that I could."

  "Did you decide to do that, or did…"

  "Phlorin?" Krysty supplied.

  Ryan nodded.

  "You know I've never done anything like that before in my life. It must have been Phlorin." Krysty smiled, touch­ing the child's face with her fingers. "Hard to imagine a crusty old bitch like that caring enough to do something like this."

  Ryan saw through to the darker side, though. "Being able to do something like that would make it a lot easier to steal children away in the dead of night," he pointed out. "Doesn't mean being able to do that is necessarily all good."

  "Never really seen anything in the Deathlands that was all good." With the wind pushing at her, blowing her hair around her face, Krysty looked almost normal. But there was a haunted look in her bright green eyes. Mildred came and took the little girl away and went to join J.B., giving them room.

  "I can't live like this, lover," Krysty said quietly.

  "I know," Ryan said.

  She turned to face him, placing a trembling hand against his scarred temple. "I mean what I'm saying, Ryan. If I have to live like this, I'll chill myself to get it over with."

  He didn't say anything, feeling the powerful emotion th
inking of her loss triggered within him. It felt like some­body had strapped iron bars across his chest.

  "Can't have anybody in my head like this," she went on. "And I can feel her. Wandering around in the back areas of my brain, learning everything she can. She'll use it against me when she gets the chance."

  "I won't let that happen," Ryan said. He put an arm across her shoulders, pulling her close and holding her tight. "Long as you're with me, you're going to be safe."

  But he had to wonder how true his words were.

  "GOING TO NEED some ammo and supplies," J.B. said.

  Ryan stood near the sailor, watching as the man handled the boat with ease. The green water of the river stretched out before them, alternately sandwiched in between stony banks and areas where pockets of trees and brush filled out in early summer growth.

  "We'll get them," Ryan said. Nearly two hours had passed since they'd left Idaho Falls. There'd been no sign of the coldhearts or anyone else. The area upriver from the ville appeared pristine and uninhabited.

  The Armorer took out his minisextant and took a reading from the sun. They were starting to lose the daylight now. When he finished, he made a few brief notations on a map of the area from his pack. "River's changed locations."

  Ryan understood. They wouldn't be able to use the river as a marker to the other areas on the map. And coming back down the river past Idaho Falls to return to the redoubt they'd come through in wouldn't be a wise idea at the mo­ment, not with the Slaggers marking territory.

  "River changes every fifteen or twenty years," the sailor said as he piloted his craft around a sandbar that stuck out nearly to the center of the river.

  "Every once in a while, the river even changes direc­tion," the sailor went on. "Thirty years ago, when I was just a boy, it flowed the other way. And my grandpop, he told me that it changed direction when he was a boy, too. But quakes somewhere along the way shifted things so much that the river started going the other way. Made things interesting around the ville for a while because my da and grandpop salvaged a lot of predark things for a few years. Made a handsome living at it trading with folks."